


Number One Ace

by EclecticAce



Series: Shirley [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticAce/pseuds/EclecticAce
Summary: Self realisation wasn't limited to your twenties, as Napoleon was finding out. How could something answer so many questions, but create so many more in the process?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JordanUlysses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JordanUlysses/gifts).



> Ok, so the title is cheesy, but I had to think of something.
> 
> Written for Asexual Awareness Week.
> 
> Edited by the lovely JordanUlysses, but anything not caught by her or I is purely my fault.

1973

                It still amazed Napoleon how, at 41, he could still be discovering things about himself. But here he was. Sitting in the barren double office he’d once shared with his long-time partner and friend, holding tight to the last of all the personal items the office had amassed over it’s 12 years of continuous use, and trying desperately to wrap his head around how he’d gotten to where he was, what he was thinking and of course, what he was figuring out about himself.

The nondescript brass frame that enclosed the photo was just as shiny as it had been the day he’d bought it, there wasn’t an imperfection of any kind on the glass, even after years upon years of handling it – Napoleon always made sure to quickly wipe away any dust, smudge or finger print lest anything somehow seep through the glass and ruin the photo beneath, and his heart still knocked in his chest every time he set eyes upon the photo, just as it had the very first time he’d set eyes upon the woman in it all those years ago.

The man’s lip curled into a gentle smile as his thumb ghosted along the jaw of the woman in the photograph, “11 years ago tomorrow, sweetheart.” 11 years ago the next day at exactly 5:47pm he’d lost his one, and at this point he was quite sure, only true love.  *“All days are nights to see till I see thee…” he started, pressing the photo against his chest and turning in his chair to face the wall. Napoleon settled his head back against the cushioned headrest of the chair and closed his eyes tightly against the near suffocating wave of absolute emotion thinking about her during this time of year always brought. He opened his eyes with a sharp gasp a minute later, blinking away the burning tears as best he could, and just stared at the brushed steel ceiling above him while shaking his head, “I could really use you beside me right now. I’m lost, Shirley,” he chuckled quietly, in complete self-deprecation, eyeing the line of rivets that connected the massive steel ceiling tiles, and continued, “I honestly have no idea what to do.”

“Getting off that rapidly aging backside of yours and letting the new occupants get use of the office would be quite the start, my friend.”

Napoleon found himself smiling, even with the turmoil roiling in his gut, at the sound of Illya’s voice. He turned again in his chair, set Shirley’s photo down on the desk face up, and stood carefully. “May I remind you,” he redid the lower two buttons of his suit jacket as he came around the desk, “that you are only 10 months younger than myself. And, uh…” his eyes slipped back to the photo and then back to his friend, “that’s considered by most to be just as antiquated as myself.” With that, Napoleon flung a stray bit of blond hair away from his friend’s cheek and winked, “Come along, Number 1, Section 8.”

\--

He did his best to not react when Illya set Shirley’s photo down on the conference table in front of him. In front of his new seat at the head of the table. In front of the seat where his predecessor and long-time boss had controlled U.N.C.L.E. for many difficult but overall successful years. His hands went to the arm rests and squeezed as his friend spoke. “You forgot somebody, Napoleon,” Illya’s voice held the same reserved tone it always did whenever he talked of Shirley, an unerring sign of respect for both his partner and the dead.

The Russian then slipped easily into the seat adjacent his and Napoleon moved the frame just slightly so the glare from the sun refracted and hit the wall to his immediate right instead of directly into his eyes. He watched as Illya adjusted his suit jacket, straightened his tie and then dug into the pocket for his glasses. He put them on, levelled his smirking friend with a scathing glare that held no heat, and said, “simply too many variables when dealing with contact lens in the lab.”

Napoleon nodded ever so slightly, the smirk still in place and replied, “naturally.”

The answering eye roll only made him laugh.

Illya huffed and pulled the frames from his face with a feigned sneer. “We can’t all be blessed with continued perfect vision; it shall one day even fail you. And then where will that leave your dashing good looks?”

“I have it on quite good authority, Mr. Kuryakin,” he made sure to enunciate his friend’s name and smirked at the huff he received in return before he continued, “that women have no problem seeing the glory behind,” he tapped the side of his head beside his eye and winked, “the glass.”

His friend’s face stayed neutral, but the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes told Napoleon all he needed to know about his friend’s true thoughts.

Illya relaxed into the chair with a contented sigh, crossed his legs and turned towards his new boss. He folded his hands in his lap and let his blue eyes take in the control room around them before they settled back on Napoleon, “this is going to cramp your style, is it not?”

The confusion in his eyes at his friend’s statement was real. “I assure you, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“With you as number 1, section 1 now you won’t be seeing much action beyond the walls of this room…”

“I’m above retirement age, my friend, it’s assumed I won’t.” His confusion only deepened as Illya’s eyes widened ever so slightly, in disbelief, and his friend’s sudden state, completely lost for words. Something that was, in all the years they’d known each other, a definite unusual occurrence.

Illya’s eyes shifted once to the back of the frame and then back to Napoleon in a flash, “you shan’t be as available to uh…the opposite sex now, as you once were. Does that not bother you?”

Napoleon made sure to direct his attention downward almost immediately as not to give himself completely away just yet. Yes, he was stalling, and yes, he wasn’t ashamed in the least. How could he be? There was no way he could do anything else. Not with the sudden burning lump in his throat. The armrests creaked under the sudden pressure of his hold and he let go. Making sure his attention stayed low, Napoleon decided that his fingers held all the secrets he needed and scrutinised each finger nail of each finger separately with the same amount of interest he usually gave to the hardest of cases.

The nerve in his thigh twitched and Napoleon relaxed, dropped his hands away completely and sighed at the ridiculousness of what he was doing -  here he was at 41 years of age, trying desperately to build up enough courage to formulate a reply to a seemingly harmless question from a man he’d known for more than a decade and had trusted with his life on countless occasions.  -Alright, Napoleon, - he thought, -time to buck up or shut up. - He looked swallowed down the rising bile in his throat and schooled his features as best he could.

“And what if I were to say to you that it didn’t?”

His heart dropped to his feet, and no matter how hard he tried, Napoleon couldn’t ignore or even stop his cheeks from reddening when Illya’s only reaction was an open, even jovial laugh. 

The blond man’s face fell almost immediately when he registered Napoleon’s splintered look. “You’re serious.”

Napoleon nodded, but stayed silent.

“Oh,” Illya blinked, leaned forward and nodded, letting the realisation of his friend’s words sink in. He nodded again sharper than before, unfolded his legs, leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together and shook them a good many times before speaking again, “ok.”

A quirked eyebrow and then a mimicked, “ok?”

Illya nodded again and leaned back in the chair again, but made sure his posture stayed just as perfect as always and looked to Napoleon with a look he hoped mirrored the seriousness of his own. “It has no bearing on my career nor do I – “

He didn’t realise he’d cut Illya off until he eyes slipped back down to the ever-present pinky ring on his finger. The words, the same ones he’d been holding in for what now felt like forever, slipped from his lips almost on their own, leaving Napoleon, forced by his own hand, into a makeshift confessional. Something that would no doubt make or break the planned course of the rest of his life. “I can honestly say,” he turned the chair to face his friend completely and raised his eyes again to meet Illya’s. If he was going to lay himself bare, he was going to do it right. “I’ve not felt anything that remotely resembles the sort of attraction one would expect, toward anyone, in quite a long time.” He refused to add, “if ever.” At least for now.

“But all the girls!” the younger mans voice held the surprise his face refused to show. “The history with Angelique, Clara…Pia.”

The slow shake of Napoleon’s head was the immediate answer, which was quickly followed by, “all a combination of superb acting, dedication to the mission and,” his thumb found a minute knot in the edge of the new oak conference table (a frivolity requested by him upon his promotion, and one U.N.C.L.E. had approved. Done as a small attempt to lessen the utilitarian feel of the room. Something that had never been his style), and began to fumble around the circumference of it, as Napoleon paused to gather himself again. His eyes though, never left Illya’s. “A cursedly captivating way with words.”

Silence fell for an agonisingly tense few minutes before Illya broke it softly. “And Shirley?”

                His reply was immediate. “We were both each other’s first in every way.” The sad smile that graced his face didn’t match the wistful look in his brown eyes as he thought back on his one and only. “She was a page at New York Central Library at the time, dropped probably the heaviest tome of Shakespeare available at the library right on my foot within five minutes of meeting, turned the most curious shade of purple and began shooting off apologies like absolute wildfire,” he moved his hand from the table and mimicked flames coming from his mouth and then smiled when he heard his friend chuckle.

He quieted down quickly after that and blinked before he dropped his attention to the table, “I think we knew each other maybe a full half an hour before I asked her to come with me to a twenty-four hour greasy spoon somewhere in the Bronx,” his brow creased with the effort it took to remember the restaurant’s name, “Annette’s I think it was called – not there anymore. Anyway!” he flung his hand back and shook his head to refocus his thoughts, “I did it purely to show her there were no hard feelings.” The sad smile morphed into one that finally matched his eyes, “only bruised toes…” He paused again and rolled his shoulders, “we ended up talking well into the next morning about anything and everything. Anything we thought of, it didn’t matter. There was absolutely no judgement – only interest. For someone as young as she was, not even twenty yet – she wouldn’t be for another two or three months, she was so knowledgeable! It absolutely floored me!" He stopped there again to re-regulate his voice; it'd been getting frighteningly close to wobbling the more he'd talked and he couldn't let it do that right now. "I went home that night after dropping her off knowing I’d marry her someday.”

A slow blink followed Illya’s small smile before Napoleon continued. “You know, it took me a month and a half to work up the courage to kiss her for the first time.” 

“Why?”

Brown eyes met blue again, “I didn’t want to lose her.”

“Why would you lose her? Surely you ran a greater risk prolonging everything like you did rather than—“

Napoleon sighed then, sounding years older than he was. “Traditionally, Illya, what is usually associated with kissing?”

Silence and then, “sex.”

“And I – it didn’t feel right.” He shrugged, as nonchalantly as he could, considering the circumstances, and tried to laugh, but it fell drastically short of anything resembling one even to his own ears. “She never pushed, you know? Not once. I never asked why. I honestly never felt I needed to.”

“What your describing sounds like a bond that anyone would be a fool not to envy, my friend. “The compassionate tone to his friend’s voice nearly did him in. But Napoleon pushed on. He had to. No going back now.

“Did you ever—“

A sharp nod and then, “we were together nearly 18 months before I could do it. Before I wanted to do it – for her.” His cheeks flushed again at the thought of what he’d done to prepare himself for an act that most considered to be innate part of life, “I’d planned it for weeks, read every book in the library I could find about it – it wasn’t something I could ask anyone about, you see…and proceeded to completely freaked myself right out. I ended up hiding in the bathroom of her apartment hyperventilating.”

Napoleon laughed at the memory then. Feeling free enough to laugh, instead of bury and hide such a big part of his past, of who he was…well, there wasn’t a word in the English lexicon to describe the feeling. Not really. “She managed to talk me down and out of the bathroom in a little less than an hour. And, eventually we did figure things out, of course. It actually ended up being the day she got accepted into secretarial school.” His smile grew into a grin, “June 21st, 1959 – summer solstice.”

“Ah, premarital sex,” the smile on Illya’s face was plainly evident in his voice, “quite scandalous, wasn’t it?”

His whole body relaxed. “Oh, incredibly so!” Napoleon hit the table with his open palm, “and it was awkward and terrible. But,” he hit the table again and cast a grateful smile in Illya’s direction, “we were terrible together!”

“Was she Asexual too?”

In all the years since he’d first figured out why he was the way he was, Napoleon had never voiced it. He’d never dared. Lest people start seeing it as a weakness and exploit it.

To hear it now hurt.

But in a uniquely good way.

“She never said,” for the first time since starting the conversation Napoleon reached for the frame with both hands. “But looking back it makes sense. We had sex maybe four times in the two years we were married, and it was always on a birthday or holiday.”

“Hate to disappoint you here, my friend,” Illya’s face split into a seldom seen, yet no less mesmerising, grin as he pulled his jacket tighter around himself and shifted in his chair, “but from what I’ve heard about traditional married couples, that’s quite normal.”

Before Napoleon could reply, a secretary walked in carrying quite possibly the largest pile of files he’d ever seen and it took everything he had not to groan or roll his eyes, like he so wanted to do. Instead, he just looked to Illya, who had long since returned to his usual unaffected look, and nodded as he pushed Shirley’s photo to the side gently and stood in unison with Illya. “Thank you, Il-Mr. Kuraykin, you may return to your work. Dr. Heath has probably started a search party for you by now. Please apologise for me upon your return, won’t you?”

They shared a quick hand shake and then turned away from each other.

                Napoleon sat down to the mass of files covering the table with a lighter heart than he’d had in a good long while. Thanks, in no small part to a blond Russian with the heart of gold, quickest wit, and greatest most accepting disposition of anyone Napoleon had met in his life.

                With the pen in his hand, poised over the first open file awaiting his signature Napoleon glanced over at Shirley’s frame beside him and smirked, as if he’d just figured out a secret.

Maybe he had.

“Almost like he was heaven sent, hey, babe?”

End

 

*Napoleon quotes the beginning of Sonnet 43 by Shakespeare.


End file.
